


Red is such a monstrous colour

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Tom, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Purebloods (Harry Potter), Stream of Consciousness, Suits, rich people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 04:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16339700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom lets Abraxas dress him





	Red is such a monstrous colour

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little longer than expected, sorry.

Tom looked in the mirror, standing behind him, also looking in the mirror, was Abraxas, he had his hands resting heavily on his shoulders and was looking with his disapproving look, eyes slowly dragging across him. There was heavy judgement in his eyes, an expression Tom was used to, it was the one Abraxas always gave when he looked at him in these moments. The one when Tom granted him just a little leeway to do what he liked.  
They were both looking in the mirror, both watching as Abraxas’ hand slid across Tom’s clothes, running the material between his fingers, tutting occasionally. Their eyes met momentarily, and Abraxas raised an eyebrow. Several floors below they could hear the beginnings of a party, the moving of objects, the sound of an orchestra playing out of tune as they warmed their instruments. The orders from Abraxas’ mother about where every sculpture should be placed and the exactment of every little detail. But up here, they were completely alone, accompanied only by the quietness and each other, and Abraxas was free to do what he wanted for an hour or so.  
“You’re frankly disgusting Tom,” he said fingers sliding down his jacket, “I feel ashamed to know you’ve been walking around dressed like that for your entire life, you should really be ashamed too.”  
Tom could have said something, but he chose to keep his mouth shut, it did Abraxas good to think he had some sort of authority, made him less mouthy late on, less insolent; more inclined to respect and courtesy and devotion, all of which Tom would be a fool not to like.  
Abraxas continued to run his gaze across his clothes, scrutinising every stitch and every seam. Every inch of fabric was inspected, first by his eyes and then by his fingers. Smoothing, pressing, pulling at his jacket, and his shirt, clearly unimpressed.  
“It’s too loose at your shoulders,” Abraxas said, hands mimicking his words, “it ruins your posture, makes your shoulders too wide. Same goes for your waist,” Abraxas’ fingers pinched at the excess material, “you’re too slim for that cut, double-breasted jackets really don’t suit you, and I don’t like the colour either, it’s all too pale, don’t you think? Washes you out.”  
Tom wasn’t sure he cared, he was here for Abraxas to dress him like a doll, not to learn about Abraxas’ preferred colour palettes.  
“Once I would have said you were like spring, all innocent and fresh, but you’re not innocent are you, Tom?”  
Their eyes met in the mirror and their minds remembered collective memories, dark twisted memories that made Tom a dark twisted person. “You’re more like the dead of winter: cold and brittle, like a fresh wound on white skin, but so full of flavour if only someone’s willing to dig a little deeper.” He mouthed at Tom’s neck, teeth biting a little harder than Tom would normally allow. Abraxas really must have been in a masochistic mood tonight, torturing himself, letting himself taste what he couldn’t have. It must be agony to have Tom in front of him and yet to maintain the pretence they were here for something else.  
Abraxas detached himself from his neck, though his hands stayed on Tom’s shoulders. “You’re up here now, Tom, amongst the gods, the Elysian echelons of society. You need to learn to have some class.”  
Tom hated Abraxas’ smugness as he leaned over, pressing himself against Tom’s back; knowing that he was completely indispensable, knowing he could get away with almost anything, knowing that _he_ was the favourite, the one Tom almost liked, it was infuriating. Tom hated how every inch of Abraxas dripped with want, a need that permeated the air, threatening to suffocate them. It was weak to need, even more so to need people. People were unreliable, people feeble, people were frankly pathetic. But Abraxas needed nonetheless, although he tried to pretend, especially around the others, that he didn’t care what Tom thought, didn’t care for Tom’s words, or for his smiles. Abraxas was a liar. He cared. Large pale eyes always hopeful, always looking for appreciation and approbation. When Tom was inclined, he gave it to him, let their hands brush in the corridor, let Abraxas kiss him in hidden corners only they knew about, let Abraxas exhibit him as a trophy because Abraxas understood who held the real power.  
Abraxas hands were back on him, creeping along the curve of his spine. “You look appalling,” he said, eyes fixed on Tom’s own. “So very appalling, so shabby, such an embarrassment. How am I supposed to show you off, flaunt you in front of everyone when you look such a disgrace?” He felt Abraxas lean closer to his ear and with a heavy voice murmured, “the answer, Tom, is that I simply can’t let you be seen looking like this.” Abraxas’ tongue scraped along the helix, “you understand that, don’t you Tom?”  
Tom finally reacted, taking the sharp shaky breath Abraxas wanted. Abraxas smirked, “so you were listening; it’s always polite to acknowledge it,” he said, lightly kissing Tom’s cheek before he could stop him. That was another thing, part of an apparently ever-growing list, Tom did not like about Abraxas: his audaciousness, the impudence that showed he thought he could get away with anything he wanted. He couldn’t, well he could right this second. At school it was a level playing field, Abraxas was no better than he, but here, here was Abraxas’ domain, the special circle of corruption reserved for only the wealthiest few. Tom was here by invitation only, and he could easily be replaced, although he had a feeling Abraxas was a too sentimental to cast him out into the abyss, and if he really did have a spine, well it would be his loss. Tom wouldn’t feel upset, betrayed, definitely, but not upset. He’d find someone else, that or do this the hard way, either way, he would get what he wanted, because he always got what he wanted. 

Taking a step back, Abraxas surveyed him, “get undressed,” he said in that authoritative voice, the one that was used to getting what he desired as soon as he desired it. Tom couldn’t help but glare, he did not like getting undressed in front of people. It spoiled the mystery, people always wanted what they couldn’t have, and Tom always maintained the illusion that they couldn’t have him, even if some of them had.  
Abraxas hands were already trailing to Tom’s shoulders, slipping the jacket down his arms.  
“I can undress myself, you know,” said Tom, trying to pretend he cared and that his patience wasn’t wearing so thin. There were some days he liked Abraxas looking, drinking his image and basking in his presence, but in those circumstances, Abraxas was usually the one in nothing but his overpriced underwear, kneeling before him in a servile sort of way.  
“Oh, I know you can, but I do so love undressing you,” said Abraxas, his fingers already scraping down Tom’s shirt, hands not caring to be gentle with the crude buttons. Tom stayed perfectly still, mind leaving the situation and finding sanctuary, somewhere less exposed, less unprotected.  
The shirt fell from his shoulders and thudded softly as it hit the floor. It was cold standing there without a shirt, despite the heat radiating from Abraxas’ gaze.  
“You’re gorgeous,” said Abraxas sinking to his knees with all the grace in the world. “So, striking,” he said raising Tom’s foot to undo the laces of his shoes. “So, dazzling,” he said sliding his fingers across his skin, pulling off his sock. It was intimate, standing here in the silence, the heir of the Malfoy dynasty on his knees, looking up at him with those pale eyes. Unspoken requests seeping from his features. He looked so wretched Tom was almost inclined to let him do whatever it was that his mind so desperately desired. Almost.  
Abraxas moved onto the other shoe, hand slow, fingers soft, touching Tom like he was made of glass. It made him mildly suspicious, Abraxas was many things, but gentle was rarely one of them. He preferred to be rowdy and rough and completely deplorable, taking what he could because he knew Tom would take it all away again by the morning. Perhaps Abraxas had realised he was finally in the position of power, that finally, Tom couldn’t really say no.  
Slowly Abraxas hands traced up his leg, his forehead followed. He straightened his torso, the bridge of his nose resting against Tom’s hips. Neither of them moving. Both waiting for the other to say something, to define the positions that were blurring together.  
“Look at yourself, Tom. Look how gorgeous you are.” Abraxas skimmed wet lips across his lower abdomen, waiting. “Come on, Tom, look at yourself.”  
Tom swallowed, not entirely sure what Abraxas was getting out of this, he did not like to be unsure. He looked straight ahead, staring endlessly at his own eyes.  
Abraxas’ hands were slowly undoing his belt, a click and sound of sliding leather and it was discarded. “You’re so exquisite, so rare, so perfect,” Abraxas was mumbling, words melting against his skin as he kissed him. Fingers pulled down the zip of his trousers, Abraxas’ mouth still against his hipbone. “You ever wanted to watch yourself come undone?” he said, not elaborating further, and ignoring any protest Tom tried to make.  
Abraxas just dragged the fabric down his legs, nails leaving pale pink pathways down his thighs. For a moment Abraxas just looked up at him with those lovely eyes, searching his face as if he was looking for salvation, maybe he was, Abraxas had more than enough sins to share. 

Abraxas climbed back to his feet, hand meandering across Tom’s body, over his thigh, crisscrossing his stomach and up to his ribcage. Fingers pressing white prints into the skin over his ribs, feeling the skeleton that forced Tom to admit he was no more than human. When he reached his collarbone, Abraxas’ hand fell away, and he just stared at Tom’s face for too long, still searching for that unmentionable something.  
“Let me look at you,” he said, taking a step back, but careful not to obscure Tom’s view of his own reflection.  
“You’ve already done that,” Tom said, keeping his face coy and words light, just enough to suggest he wasn’t entirely happy. It was Abraxas’ favourite game, Tom pretending he hated all of this, pretending Abraxas’ gaze offended him, pretended that Abraxas’ authority intimidated him.  
“You haven’t stopped looking at me, Abraxas.”  
“Is that a problem, Tom,” he said not meaning it as a question. There was a small smile playing at his lips, the slightest suggestion Abraxas was enjoying this far more than he let on. Though Tom had always known Abraxas would like to have all the power, the control over Tom that Tom exerted so carelessly over him. Sometimes the feeling bubbled to the surface and found its way to his mouth and to his hands, it made Abraxas do silly things, insubordinate things that always kept Tom on edge. There was a thrill in knowing what Abraxas could do if he wanted if he dared; that only a thin line separated their positions as predator and prey.  
Soon Abraxas’ gaze was joined again by his hand. He ran it slowly across Tom’s shoulders, taking his time, dipping the tips of his fingers into the hollows before sliding them up the ridges. Tom knew in those moments he was nothing more than another pretty body, Abraxas had seen far too many of those. Pretty bodies, that made pretty sounds when he did all the right things. Tom was more than a pretty body and Abraxas should be careful to remember that.  
“This is just an excuse to have your hands all over me,” said Tom tilting his neck back. Abraxas didn’t even look up.  
“Perhaps it is, but is that so wrong, Tom?” He looked up then, eyes locking together, Abraxas smiled that special smile he reserved for people lesser than himself, the ones who wanted to impress him by getting to their knees. “You know you’re gorgeous, Tom, you don’t need me to tell you that again, although I will if you want.” He leaned in closer, hand on his cheek, being more intimate than usual. Typically, he was an object to be adored and admired, now the way Abraxas was looking at him was more reminiscent of tenderness, love even. That thing people said was the best feeling in the world, that thing Tom didn’t really understand people’s obsession with, that thing that made him different from everyone else.

“You’d look nice in burgundy,” Abraxas said suddenly. He was behind him now, lips against Tom’s ear, “that or dark green, Slytherin green, but it’s Christmas and no one wears green to a Christmas party.” He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and maybe it was to a Malfoy whose name had come to represent everything that purebloods stood for. All that triviality and all those unimportant things that these gods seemed to treasure, was epitomised by the Malfoys and their ostentatious world. A world so infected with expense that the house bled with it, rivulets of silver running down the walls and pooling with the Persian rugs, decadence spreading across the floors, unfurling itself down the stairs, spilling over the banister, poisoning everyone who entered with its splendour, that artificial glamour rich people seemed to love. The opulence hung in the air like a diffusion of diamond dust, clogging their throats and choking them with invisible money stained hands. Though as much as Tom would like to say he hated it, how could anyone hate such marvels, the idea that anyone could be so sickeningly rich, have so much at their disposal, and yet still not be sated, was enthralling.  
“It would complement your eyes, bring a little warmth to that cold exterior,” continued Abraxas, Tom had forgotten he was even still here.  
“Red is such a savage colour, it brings a depth to the moment, an allure, an intrigue, makes people want to stare and yet be so embarrassed if they’re caught.” Abraxas paused and ran a thumb down Tom’s waist, it made his skin prickle, but he stayed where he was.  
“Given the occasion, I think a three-piece wouldn’t go amiss. I would have said velvet, but that would just be excessive, so perhaps a blend of vicuna wool and cashmere instead. Something soft and silky, lavish and luxurious. Something to remind you just how much I’m spending on you,” his thumb continued up Tom’s sternum, “black tie, white shirt, decent shoes. You, letting me, do something with your hair.”  
Tom exhaled deeply, trying to ignore the way Abraxas hands crept into his hair, tangling his fingers in the gentle curls. He did not like people touching his hair, but it would be worth it, that’s all he had to remember, that Abraxas was sentimental, that he was weak, that he would give Tom exactly what he wanted as long as he played by the rules. The rules Abraxas made up as he went along always to suit his own needs, the rules he was happy to disregard as long as it benefited him, and only him.  
Tom wouldn’t admit it but there was a kick to be had from knowing how much Abraxas was wasting on him already, the time, the energy, the money. He was throwing diamonds into the abyss, as Tom had absolutely no intention of reimbursing him for his loss. It was Abraxas decision to chase after pretty things, so he shouldn’t be surprised to learn some pretty things had sharp edges.  
“You’re undeniably attractive Tom, but I can make you absolutely gorgeous if you’ll do exactly what I say.” Abraxas held his eyes for a few seconds, daring him to disagree. Tom didn’t, even he had to admit Abraxas knew more about the ingratiating golden circles he spun in.  
Abraxas continued, “in red, you’ll be the centre of attention, so violent and erotic and completely irresistible. Everyone’s eyes will be on you, watching your every move, complimenting you, admiring you; yearning for you. All you have to do is stay by my side and smile.”  
“As what? Eye candy?” Tom said slowly, turning his face to look at Abraxas.  
“Perhaps to other people, but to me, you’re so much more than that.”  
“Is that so? I haven’t seen any proof of that, Abraxas.”  
“You will.” 

Tom did. Standing in Abraxas closet was like entering another world, infinitely more ornate and wasteful than the last. There were too many clothes, such beautiful clothes, it was hard not to fall under decadent’s wicked spell. Abraxas moved around with familiarity, collecting everything from a single large cupboard towards the back. He was holding a burgundy suit and all the accessories. Tom did not want to think how long Abraxas been planning this, didn’t want to think that his infatuation was becoming an obsession  
“Don’t look so alarmed, Tom.”  
He’d continued to look on sceptically, waiting to be proved wrong. Abraxas slid his hands along his legs as he dragged up the trousers, hands lingering on his hips for too long, wrapping around his waist to button them just right. Abraxas standing far too close to do up the buttons of his shirt. He let Tom put on his own socks and shoes, gliding them across his feet, taking longer than he should because Abraxas was so interesting to watch, so overcome by it all, overwhelmed by the prospect of having Tom all dressed up for him, and only him.  
Tom bit his lip, turning to admire himself from every angle, letting Abraxas see every angle, every edge, every line, every curve, every devasting perspective. Abraxas handed him the waistcoat in silence. Tom could see how much he wanted to put it on him himself, but where would be the fun in letting Abraxas do what he wanted? He took his time, fingers sliding the buttons into the holes before skimming across his waist onto his hips, down his thighs; head turning to admire himself. He couldn’t help but appreciate himself, especially when Abraxas was looking at him like _that_.  
The jacket was last to go on, tapered, slim fitting, leaving just enough to the imagination. Looking at himself, it was obvious Abraxas was right: burgundy did suit him. It brought a glossiness to his eyes and a lustre to his skin. He had to smirk, had to revel in the sensuality of it all. Fabric so soft against his skin, making him feel outrageously expensive. He thought more about how he moved, every movement fluid, effortless, sexual.  
From the corner of his eye, Tom watched Abraxas. Watched his breath quicken and a flush colour the highs of his cheeks when he moved in a certain way, watched how his pupils were blown so wide, how his fingers were trembling, how he couldn’t take his hands off him. Tom would be prepared for Abraxas to dress him more often if it provoked this kind of reaction every time, this weakness was intoxicating to see up so close.  
Abraxas took a step forward and Tom turned to face him, waiting expectantly, Abraxas could not endure this forever, however masochistic he was feeling. Abraxas took another step forward. Tom stepped back. Another step forward followed by another back, another forward, another back. Eyes never leaving each other. Tom knew what Abraxas wanted, it was painfully obvious that something inside him was burning up with want; it was painted across his face, from the flush of his cheek to the smouldering of his eyes. There was a heat under his skin and Abraxas was just aching to let it out.  
Tom took another step, back now against the mirror, it was cool on his hands, a materiality grounding him to the earth, reminding him why he was here.  
“You look – delicious,” said Abraxas coming far closer than he normally would dare. Tom smirked, “do you want a taste?”  
He hadn’t finished speaking before Abraxas was nodding shamelessly, already holding Tom’s wrists against the mirror, not bothering to even try and justify the way he was feeling anymore.  
“What will you give me for it?”  
“Anything, Tom, anything you want,” lips moments from his skin, but not daring to enter that sacred space by Tom’s collarbone until Tom let him, he was almost tempted not to let him. To watch as Abraxas tore himself apart from the inside out.  
“I don’t want anything, Abraxas, I want everything.”  
Abraxas moaned, licking his lips, hands pressing harder against the mirror, “you can have it all, everything, Tom, everything, if you just...”  
“My pleasure,” he said tilted his neck back, head thudding against the mirror. Abraxas pushing their bodies together, mouth against his neck, tasting him like a starving man. Abraxas’ hands left his wrists, they fumbled with his buttons, anxious to get down to his skin, find the raw substance behind the unending glamour. Anxious to stop torturing himself and admit what he really wanted.  
Tom stood passive, not helping, but not hindering, expectant and curious. He wouldn’t lie, Abraxas was good with his hands, good at dragging him into the shadows, head between his thighs, making him groan, making his shoulders relax and his hands to pull at Abraxas’ hair just the way he liked it.  
Abraxas made him feel powerful without trying, made him think he could have the world in his hands without the casual violence he felt so inclined to resort to. It was crushing and suffocating and oh so good.  
“Why are you so gorgeous, Tom?” Abraxas was murmuring, fingers digging into his skin, body rocking, practically begging for a reaction.  
“I’m exactly what you made me, Abraxas,” he said, finally raising his own hand from the coolness of the mirror. He dragged his own fingers down Abraxas’ back, knuckles against his spine. Carefully slipping between them, nurturing the slowness, the calmness, making Abraxas wait for so much longer. Feeling the intensity increase in the room every time he undid a button. Pretending he cared, pretending he wanted this just as much as Abraxas did. He ran his middle finger down his sternum, down his stomach, nails clinking against Abraxas’ belt, sinking lower until Abraxas was moaning against his neck.  
“Tom…”  
Tom hummed a reply, Abraxas was so easy, he thought Tom didn’t pay attention to the little things, he thought he didn’t understand how the pureblood world worked; thought he did not understand that the cut of your jacket and the set of your features spoke so much more than your mouth ever could. Tom understood, oh did he understand, and it was so pathetic, they were all so pathetic, so judgemental, so superficial, and Abraxas was no different. He liked to think he was, but he was just a product of this diamond-encrusted society, too rich, too wealthy, too busy drowning it all to understand reality. 

He was spread beneath Abraxas, being exactly what he wanted him to be: a star, a secret, a saccharine filled sensation whose red mouth tasted of white lies. When Abraxas kissed him, it was pitiful. Pitiful that he insisted on his tongue enacting nostalgic longings, but it was also so delicious, tasting the poison that dripped from Abraxas’ tongue. That lovely corruption was so sickly sweet that it stung his throat reminding him of the painful perfection that money could buy.  
Legs parted, arms above his head, artificially exposed, giving Abraxas enough that he thought he knew; thought he really had Tom; he had nothing but a shell, and he would never have any more. Abraxas was rich and audacious but uninteresting. He would never be interesting, however much he wanted to be. Abraxas was just entertainment, too easy to be anything more, too simple, he had no hidden depths or at least none that Tom had found. That was perhaps the one vaguely intriguing thing about Abraxas, he never truly knew what he was thinking. Tom could guess and most of the time it was obvious, but every so often he would catch Abraxas eyes and have no idea what the look meant. He’d been close to getting inside Abraxas’ head, so close, but Abraxas always pushed him out, never let him see his secrets. Perhaps he understood that was the only reason Tom stayed so adamantly by his side, and as soon as his secrets were spilt, he would be worthless. Perhaps he knew that, or perhaps Abraxas just didn’t want him inside his head. Either way, it was intriguing, an equivocal curiosity that kept Tom marginally amused in moments like this.  
Abraxas pushing him against the mattress, tasting his lips with a little too much vigour, trying to commit every part of him to perfect memory. Tom didn’t like to think what his fantasy-self was subject to in the depths of Abraxas’ shallow imagination, he was sure it was filthy. Something depraved and base and completely unrealistic that Abraxas used to satiate his frivolous desires. He could look if he wanted, now when Abraxas’ guard was down, he could find out exactly what use Abraxas thought he had for him, but this was more fun, waiting for Abraxas to move his next pawn and commit himself to something he didn’t know. Watching them all struggle to swim was far more satisfying than it should have been, watching them all drown was absolute bliss.  
He couldn’t help but groan when Abraxas pretty pink lips did the things they were doing; every ridge, every crease of his tongue being used with absolute precision, so soft and slow and succulent, making his face too hot and his words fuzzy. He twisted a strand of Abraxas hair around his fingers and pulled just enough to hint he wasn’t fully happy. Abraxas’ lips curled into a smile.

Abraxas’ body was heavy on his own, his face buried in the crook of Abraxas’ neck, breathing him in.  
Abraxas smelled like all rich people smell as if his soul was rotting, wealth had such a pungent smell and it was all that was filling his lungs as Abraxas rocked his hips. There was a thrill to lying on his back and being fucked by a decaying apparition of a richer world. Hands clenched, nails digging into his own skin, biting his own lip too hard, tempted to make it bleed, to ruin Abraxas’ suit with pretty streaks of red. But despite all that, despite his legs wrapped around Abraxas, and despite his heels digging into his back and despite his moans, he knew that he wasn’t really there when Abraxas fucked him. That he was thinking of other things. That he could feel everything Abraxas did with so much clarity, the drag of skin on skin, Abraxas’ hand wrapped around his cock, slackly sliding, back and forth, back and forth and back and forth. He could hear himself moan, feel his back arch to the steady shifts of Abraxas hips, but he wasn’t present. He was gliding through a subspace where every dark unthinkable possibility was a reality.  
When he came, vision fracturing for a second, finally giving in to what his body wanted, he wasn’t thinking of Abraxas. Wasn’t thinking of that spectre made of gold, or his rusting crown, or his angel fingers dragging him into the light. At least that’s what he told himself when Abraxas’ fingers swirled patterns on his ribs in the dark, what he told himself when Abraxas’ pale eyes watched him get dressed, what he told himself as he walked around, the glittering accessory to Abraxas’ diamond façade. That’s what he told himself because he didn’t want to think what it would mean if he _had_ been thinking about Abraxas.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a feeling characterisation went a bit awry in this, (sorry about that), hope you liked it anyway


End file.
